


The First Annual Anti-Unattached Drifter Christmas

by SeeNashWrite



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends Who Become More, Humor, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 17:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeeNashWrite/pseuds/SeeNashWrite
Summary: Well, it's.... it's The First Annual Anti-Unattached Drifter Christmas.





	The First Annual Anti-Unattached Drifter Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Secret Valentine event over on Tumblr - as y'all know, I'm allergic to fluff & this time I broke out in heart-shaped hives, but it's got some humor injected into it, so I've survived. Multiple details included for my assigned Valentine, such as colors (not shown here, a large graphic is back at the Tumbles should you be interested), food, movie, music, & the hard pass on flowers. The donuts were all me.

Dean was determined to not screw this up.

 _This_ happened to be the first Valentine’s Day he’d be celebrating. Legitimately celebrating, that is; not a morgue or a horseman or an overzealous cupid to be found. The best stuff he cooked was Mexican, no sense in being humble there, but his guest liked Italian, so on the menu it went. Dean knew he’d made too much food, and his splattered apron and the pile of crusty cookware in the sink showed it, but she seemed happy.

And he was happy, too - she’d brought movies (all disaster, no chick flicks: _awesome_ ), plus cookies and brownies, and had absolutely nailed it, no question. But it was the present he hadn’t expected that knocked him for a loop: a classic boom box for his classic rock, cassettes only, as it should be. She’d thrown in a couple of replacements for ones he’d mentioned had worn out, to boot. They stayed up late - probably _too_ late, in fact - but a 3 a.m. grub fest on cold spaghetti and soggy nachos took care of the appetites they’d worked up.

“Your present’s gonna be at breakfast,” he’d mumbled, right after side B of tape two ended, and just before they fell asleep.

“S'long as it’s not flowers,” she’d muttered back through a yawn.

“Hmmm?”

“All they do is smell up the joint like a funeral home.”

“I know, right? Stupid,” he’d agreed.

Dean threw the vase of flowers he’d already set out in the library into Sam’s room first thing. It would take a year for the scent of stale rose water to leave Sam’s mattress. This made Dean laugh. Which made Sam plot revenge. But that’s another story.

So it was, on the morning - afternoon, truth be told - of the First Annual Anti-Unattached Drifter Christmas, when she stumbled into the kitchen to find they’d seemingly been napalmed with Krispy Kreme, she immediately realized that the red splotches she’d seen up and down his arms weren’t due to some sort of salt-and-burn gone sideways.

That man had gone and deep-fried about eighty thousand donuts, and powdered and filled and sprinkled and iced, and it looked as if he’d whipped together a bunch of trays and stands out of plywood and god knows what - no _wait_ , were those _drip pans?_ \- and that was all on top of the dinner and the wine and the…. and…. and…. and….

Oh _shit_. This was serious. _He_ was serious.

“Um, Donna? You okay?” Dean asked, her frozen-on-the-spot status not escaping his attention.

He watched as she slowly sat down at the table, looking as glazed as the occupants of the plate near her elbow. She stared at him, then blinked several times, apparently shaking herself out of it, as the next thing she did was grab a random donut, not really bothering to choose. And she answered with a lone, short, confusing-to-Dean-word.

“Once.”

Dean frowned briefly, then regrouped, and said, quite eloquently:

“Huh?”

“You’ve seen me eat donuts _once_.”

Dean chuckled - well, a singular chuckle that turned into a throat-clearing - and didn’t respond right away, as she’d moved on to practically mauling the messily frosted and overfilled chocolate lump in her hand, and he observed with admiration for a moment or two before he tried to explain himself.

“Well, _you_ shoulda seen _me_ \- the powdered ones are a real bitch, I ended up out in the garage, threw ‘em in drip pans —”

 _Called it_ , she thought.

“— and rigged up this thing kinda like a paint sprayer that would… would…. _wow_ , you really put that away fast…. so anyway, I guess I kinda got 'em coated pretty…. um….”

He was encouraged, as her next victim was one of said powdered confections, so he kept talking.

“And y'know, that…. that was…. I kinda thought we…. I dunno, _bonded_ over 'em.”

“’Bonded’?” she repeated, perhaps sputtered, what with the stuffed mouth and all.

“Then we kept working cases, bonded _more_ , started meeting up at motels, bonded _there_ , and, heh, we bonded a _whole_ helluva lot that weekend with the thing that ended up being rabid raccoons —”

“Okay, I get —”

“ — and we _really_ bonded last night —”

“STOP SAYING THE WORD BONDED.”

“Ten-four.” A few beats of silence - minus a swallow on both their parts - and he added, “So, I mean, that  - the donuts - that was the day we met.”

One deep breath in-and-out later, dusted chin and errant sprinkles stuck to her lips be damned, she finally met his eye again.    

“Yeah, so…. there any margarita mix or wine left?”

“There’s plenty, but —”

“'Cause I’m gonna need a drink. To handle all this. It’s…. a lot.”

“Handle all —”

“The breakfast, I mean.”

“Right, right. I went a little nuts, I guess….”

He trailed off, glanced around, suddenly feeling awkward - because holy hell, it _was_ a lot - but then she smiled.

And he smiled right back.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is fuel! Let me know if you enjoyed.


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